


Rain and Rouen

by PunkRory



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Fluff and Angst, Historical, Historical Hetalia, Historical References, Hundred Years War - Freeform, Light Angst, Light Romance, Multi, axis powers: hetalia - Freeform, hetalia: it's a beautiful world
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-16 17:52:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11833929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PunkRory/pseuds/PunkRory
Summary: England pays his respects in Paris at the Place Des Pyramides, reflecting on his past mistakes during the Hundred Years War, and the death of Joan of Arc.





	Rain and Rouen

The statue towered overhead, a monument to all his mistakes. It was early morning and no flowers had been set at the foot of the statue, not yet. He knew that any moment his long time frenemy would come around the corner, lay a dozen or so flowers down for the statue, and stand there looking up at heroine who waved her banner permanently frozen in a righteous pose. It was this way every year. The only thing Arthur couldn’t know for certain was exactly what time Francis would show up. He glanced around him at the crowds of people passing by, scanning the crowd to make sure he wasn’t in the company of Francis.  
Any other day he wouldn’t have cared if he’d been caught in the capital. He’d make up some excuse about having to travel for work or that he was doing America a favor. Arthur would never admit he was there by his own choice, especially not on today. Being in the presence of the statue just by itself was enough to bring him back to that day.  
All around him people disappeared and the buildings became newer but less polished. The clothing became more modest and less modern. Around him, men rode horseback carrying swords and shields, covered in plates of metal with chainmail falling down over their necks and shoulders as arrows flew overhead and the noise became an overwhelming mix of metal clashing against more metal and the groans of wounded men.

The first time he had seen her he had thought she was a man.

It was an easy mistake to make when she was dressed from head to toe in armor. Orleans had been under siege and Arthur’s control and it would have stayed that way until the mysterious, banner-waving, soldier arrived. After nine days France had lifted the siege, with the help of that soldier, with the help from her.  
Despite that she was shorter than most of the other soldiers and had a generally small frame, he hadn’t realized she was a girl until he caught a glimpse of her and Francis celebrating their success after lifting the siege. Her face was visible and he saw her -- truly -- for the first time.  
Her face was too soft to be a man's and all the features too round. All the other men had strong jaws and angular faces and always looked angry or melancholy but when he glanced back she wasn’t. She looked hopeful, and for a second Francis did too.

That’s when Arthur knew she was trouble. He reported back to King Henry V and told him all about the “miracle” the French army had experienced.

“Impossible” The King had said. Arthur agreed wholeheartedly. After holding onto Orleans for so long and so well, Arthur couldn’t fathom how Francis had pulled it off. All his mind would come back to is the girl. It was her fault he’d been caught in such a position. He’d never felt more humiliated. Not only had Francis pulled the rug from under him but some girl -- some peasant no less -- had helped him do it.  
As the war moved forward he began to give her more and more attention. He listen to the rumors around the different towns he passed. Over and over he kept hearing the same story. She was sent from God, that it was her mission to help the french win the war. He heard that all she did was spin miracles.  
His anger grew with each win and each one of these so called miracles. It was blasphemy to him. A girl saving France? Certainly not. It became more than securing King Henry V’s role as the ruler of the throne... It was personal. He convinced himself along with the other men in his army that it was all a lie. She was a false profit bewitching others and pulling schemes with the devil himself to win.  
Over and over France became closer to winning the war. The tide had turned, but for each victory France grasp Arthur’s hatred grew. Each miracle was only tinder to the fire. Arthur was beginning to think they’d lost, that they had no hope nor a chance when finally a real miracle occurred.

Joan had been captured.

“Joan.” He said quietly to himself, within the confines of his bedroom. “Joan…” He said the name over and over until it morphed into nothing but a string of sounds. Finally, a name to go with the mystery “miracle” worker. He sat there and wondered just for a moment if she was such a great miracle and such a hero why France wouldn’t bother to pay the ransom the Burgundians had demanded to get her back. Must not be a real miracle. Must not truly be very important to him. That's what he told himself.

He traveled down to the where they locked her up.

Hiding behind a corner, he peeked inside the prison that locked her up. She looked different. It wasn’t what he had expected. On the battlefield she seems confident, ready to fight and full of a fire. In this cell, behind these bars, she seemed so much smaller. She seemed less sure. Curled up in the corner with her knees pressed to her chest. He didn’t speak to her. He only looked, safely behind the wall where she couldn’t see him lurking.

He could understand what Francis saw in her now. She didn’t seem dangerous, not when she was so defenseless. She seemed almost normal, like any other peasant girl in any other town or village. She probably played games with her friends, helped her mother cook, maybe even helped around her parents farm or looked after some of the younger kids if their parents were busy. He could see her in a position like that. He could see her being a normal girl, but a war hero? A miracle worker? A saint? That was harder for him to wrap his head around.

He would do this every so often. It wasn’t so bad until the trial began. She was being charged with heresy. He came by night after night and every time she seemed more and more defeated, like she was giving up a little at a time. Her clothing had become dirty and worn out. He could tell it wouldn't be long before the trial was over. It wouldn’t be long before she finally gave in to what had already been decided was her fate.

He had wanted to stay longer-- and would have-- but he was needed in another place for a few days. By the time he’d made his way back, the decision had been made. She had been sentenced to death. She had continued wearing male attire after the court declared her not to. He didn’t know what to think. Should he be happy? They’d finally taken down the infamous soldier. It was all downhill after this. That’s what he thought he should feel. That’s what everyone else felt.

But he felt disappointed. When she walked out to the pyre she seemed like a different person. The confident soldier that he’d seen celebrating next to Francis had been stripped away. Now all that was left was a scared, frail girl. No one had come to help her. She had been left completely on her own. After everything she had done for France, she had been left to fend for herself. No troops came, no King commanded orders to save her. All she did was help that country and all they did was abandoned her. He was disappointed alright, but not in her.

It was slow, and then all at once. The smoke and then the smell of the wood and the burning flesh. She’d suffocate before the fire killed her. The smoke would smother her. The fire grew at her feet and the smoke surrounded into one dense cloud towering over her and surrounding her. His eyes grew teary. He convinced himself it was all the smoke. They burned her more than once. No one wanted to take any chances on another “miracle” happening. By the time they were done all that was left was ashes.

 

All that was left was the soot.

Francis took eons to forgive him. Even when he did, it didn’t seem sincere. England didn’t blame him. He figured France hated him and rightfully so. What did it matter? England hated himself too. He didn’t choose for it to happen. It wasn’t his order but his people. Yes, that was a part of him. He didn’t light the fire. He didn’t fan the flame, but he didn’t prevent it either. In a way, he did kill her. That’s what he told himself. That’s what he believed and always will. No apology will change that. No forgiveness will either.

 

He’d spent enough time standing under the statute. He spent enough time thinking back on the days. He glanced around at the crowd again. The streets of Paris were clear of France. He took it as his chance to leave. All the way over the channel and all the way back to his home he wondered if all the rain in his country was meant to douse the flame set years and years ago.


End file.
